Long before anyone awakens, the smell of bacon fills the kitchen. The slow surrender of a peaceful home to the scent of fat hitting a cast-iron pan is what Chef Linton Hopkins seems to enjoy most about Sunday mornings. His daughters can almost precisely predict when he will begin grinding pepper into the pot because he has been preparing shrimp and grits on Sundays for so long.
Although the term “tradition” seems too formal to describe what truly occurs in his Atlanta kitchen, it is tempting. No recipe card is affixed to the refrigerator. There are no measuring cups arranged. Standing in his pajamas, stirring a pot of stone-ground grits with the same wooden spoon he’s been using for years, is just a man who once won a James Beard Award.
There has always been a romantic quality to shrimp and grits. It was never intended to be elegant; it was originally a fisherman’s breakfast along the Low Country coast, which includes Georgia, the Carolinas, and portions of the Gulf. Some grits, a handful of shrimp, and, if you had it, some bacon. That was the entire narrative. The dish began to appear under more fancy names with truffle oil and microgreens after it was discovered by white-tablecloth restaurants. By most accounts, Hopkins finds that kind of funny. Maybe annoying. Although he hasn’t stated it explicitly, the way he characterizes his Sunday version—plain, hot, and generous—suggests that he doesn’t think the dish needs to be saved.
The first and slowest to arrive are the grits. He uses white grits that are coarsely ground and made from hominy that have been alkali-processed in the traditional manner. Southerners who have stood close to him during the cooking claim that he becomes subtly adamant that yellow corn is not permitted in his kitchen for this purpose. The grits are added to water with a generous pinch of salt, followed by milk, butter, and, at the very end, a handful of sharp cheese. He cooks them until the corn hulls become silky, flecked, and nearly custardy. He doesn’t act as though there is a shortcut.
The bacon is placed in a pan while the grits are working. The medium-sized shrimp, shell-on for the stock he occasionally makes from the shells, are added after the fat renders out slowly and patiently. They cook quickly. Perhaps no more than two minutes per side. He has previously stated that overcooked shrimp ruin everything. They should be opaque, firm, and slightly tender in the center. A quick pan gravy thickened with bacon drippings, a dash of stock, and a squeeze of lemon. Finally, some green onions were added for color and a tiny, sharp bite.
The point is that it’s a simple dish. After years of preparing meals to wow judges and critics, Hopkins seems to have quietly come to the conclusion that Sunday morning is only his family’s. He doesn’t make the same shrimp and grits for them as he did at Holeman & Finch. It is more ancient than that. Most likely more akin to what his grandmother, or her mother before her, may have created.
It’s difficult to ignore how uncommon this type of ritual has become when witnessing it firsthand. Because they are too exhausted, under too much pressure, and have too many people requesting recipes, chefs at his level frequently give up cooking at home completely. Hopkins continued to prepare meals on Sundays. Perhaps that’s the dish’s most telling feature. Week after week, it continues to be produced for the one and only audience that ever truly mattered.
